The Matfred Chronicles
by The Rational Dove
Summary: A collection of oneshots based around two brothers who happen to like each other in ways brothers shouldn't like each other. AmericaxCanada. Rated T, but there are individual ratings per chapter.
1. Why?

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 1: Why?**

**Rating: K+**

* * *

Why? That question, asked over and over and over again.

Why? The word repeating in a monotone voice in his head.

_Why?_

Canada didn't know why. He could never explain it. He tried to make an educated guess- a hypothesis- as to the reasons his own _logic_, his own _desires_, his own _morals_ had let him accept this. But the guesses died- burned to ashes after the experiment set them to flames.

America hadn't really come out and given his confession. Or did he? Hadn't he? It was after the World Conference meeting, right? America and Canada, sitting alone in that room with its long elliptical table, full of empty seats.

There he had confessed.

There had had spilt the beans.

There he had spoke the three forbidden words of something quite larger than normal sibling relationships were suppose to encompass.

Why there? A World Conference wasn't the least bit romantic.

Why America? Another country could have- should have been better.

Why did he go along with it? Why did he say _yes_? _WHY?????_

Constantly, his morals shouted at him: He's your brother. He's related to you- shares your blood. You'll only now be known as America's boyfriend. How pathetic. There goes your chance of being noticed without another person covering you up. You two aren't even compatible. He's your brother. You're both men. He's your brother.

It took a while for them to shut up, especially the last one. It remained the hardest to suppress-to ignore. Why wouldn't they stop pestering him?

Why?

Now the question suddenly morphed into another question of the same nature.

_How?_

How did it happen? How come America was the one? How come he went along with it all? How did he let himself accept it?

The other questions faded to the background, while one stepped forward: How did it feel to be loved by his brother, his twin, his "pants", his America?

How?

A three- letter question answered by a four- letter word.

Good.

* * *

**Author's Note: I figured that Matfred needed a lot more love than it has been given and since I'm a big fan, I knew a fanfiction would be best for the pairing. I know this chapter is short and all, but it'll get better, I promise :) But I need you, the reader's, help. If you review, please give me a random word (any word at all) and put it in your review. I will choose one of these reviews and write a chapter for that word. Right now, my friend asked me to write one for the word "spoon" and I have a good idea for that^^**

**Thanks for reading!**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**


	2. Spoon

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 2: Spoon**

**Rating: K**

* * *

"No!"

Canada rolled his eyes at America's insolence. "Just one more, Alfie!" he implored.

America only glared at the metal table setting reproachfully. "Never. That medicine tastes horrible! Even worse than Iggy's food."

Canada knew how much of a bag that was, but America wouldn't return to normal health on his own. "C'mon. Those superheroes in your comics never let a little medicine stop them from getting better."

"Heroes don't get sick," America replied flatly just before a sneeze violently lurched his head forward.

After America finished blowing the mucus out of his nose into a tissue, Canada contemplated a method to get the spoon into America's mouth without any whining. Soon, a plan materialized in his head. Canada proceeded to sit down on the edge of the bed and lean his face closer to America's.

America looked a tad bit confused at his brother's action. If his brother kissed him, would he catch the disease, too? But Canada's lips were so _tempting_. They were right there, inches from his face, almost begging to be smooched.

Shoving his doubt away, he leaned forward, his chapped lips craving the taste of his brother in his mouth. His lips parted open, preparing his tongue to-

A sharp metallic tang filled his taste buds as soon as he could feel Canada's warming breath rushing onto his lips.

America shuddered as the pungent, acidic liquid spilled down his throat and traveled down into the rest of his digestive tract. How could he have been so stupid?

Canada couldn't be prouder of himself. Perhaps America's obsession with him could be useful… "Now that wasn't bad, was it Al?" he asked smugly, removing the utensil from America's mouth.

No reply. America busily spluttered, trying to clear his throat of disgusting antibiotic.

Feeling responsible, Canada placed a hand on America's shoulder in a gesture of comfort.

America shrugged the hand off. "Don't touch me. You could get sick," he mumbled flatly.

Canada followed his twin's wishes and backed away. "Look, I'm sorry, but if you weren't going to cooperate, then I had to be sneaky."

America glared through Texas, a blue fire in his eyes. "You almost **CHOKED** me!" He growled, irritated. "If I suffocated, that would be worse than some stupid cold."

Canada sighed, hands akimbo. "Well, stop stressing about it, will you? You need to sleep."

America lay down, his head retiring to the pillow. "Okay…I'll call you if I need you," he grumbled, suddenly sounding truly weak.

Canada mutely nodded, turning his back and made his way to the exit. In reality, he had really wanted to share a kiss with America just then, but it wasn't like he would tell his sick brother about his qualms.

Abruptly, he stopped, hand halfway on the doorknob. Canada tossed a gaze over his shoulder, a feeling of immense guilt fermenting in the pit of his stomach.

"_America_ _must've really wanted that kiss…"_ Canada recalled America's facial expression, a wistful gaze of a craving only he could completely satisfy.

Canada's mind, taking advantage of the creative spurt it seemed to be experiencing today, put another plan into action.

America, although his eyes were squeezed tight, was far from falling asleep when two hands arranged his bed sheets so that his head remained the singular part of his body not encased by blankets. America's eyebrows crinkled in befuddlement as a wet washcloth plopped onto his forehead and his glasses mysteriously vacated his face. He heard the frames lightly placed on his night stand and felt the weight of another body on his bed.

A pair of lips joined his, to America's surprise, and he sighed as fingers navigated through the fronds of his blonde hair. America draped a weak arm over his lover's neck, savoring the kiss. He moved his mouth in microscopic amounts and attempted to slide his tongue between Canada's lips, but he was denied entrance.

With reluctance, pressure was alleviated from his chapped skin. However, Canada's lips still grazed his brother's own pair. "I hope you get better soon, Al," Canada's voice lightly whispered against America, his hands cupping the other's face.

As quick as Canada had appeared, he was gone like a breath of summer wind. America's arms extended, trying to trap Canada in them and prevent him from leaving his side; his fingers were left to hold thin air as his bedroom down swung closed, the only evidence of Canada's departure.

His mouth twisted into a face of deprecation, but his disappointment lasted for a millisecond as his brain replayed the sensation of his beloved brother kissing him. As he remembered, America began to question the reality of the event. Had Canada actually shared a kiss with him or had the experience been a mere figment of his brain? America tossed the evidence around in his head until it all became mush and the original question lay forgotten.

"Canada is quite the mysterious dude," he commented to himself drowsily as he drifted into an undisturbed slumber.

* * *

**I have a lot of trouble with the ending bit. The first draft was too rushed, so I extended it and I'm pretty happy with the final product. Thanks to Hikaru2322 for the word suggestion.**

**Next word: Spirit (suggested by Artificial Starlight.)**

**~AnimeOtaku1029**


	3. Spirit

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 3: Spirit**

**Rating: K+ (because it can get confusing)**

* * *

"Americans, by far, have more spirit than you Canadians will ever have!"

Canada snorted a mild sign of disbelief. "Please! Canadians are way more spirited than your people and you know it."

The two brothers had been discussing the matter over breakfast, in between forkfuls of eggs and bacon. (America talked regardless of whether food occupied his mouth or not.)

"Prove it!" America commanded through a mush of food.

Canada smirked slyly. This wouldn't be hard at all. "Take me, for example. Everything I do is a representation of the Canadian spirit."

Another mouthful of eggs and bacon departed his mouth in a gulp. "So…every single thing you do is something that shows the Canadian spirit?"

Canada nodded; no question in his mind that it was the truth.

"That means…that every time you hold hands with me…it's Canadian sprit?" America reached across the table and took his hand in his.

Canada's peach colored face turned white at the true realization of his explanation.

America knew he had just made Canada regret what he had said.

"And…when we kiss," here America touched his lips to Canada's nose. "…that's Canadian spirit, too?"

Canada never replied. America got out of his chair and knelt down on the side of the chair containing Canada.

"When you touch me and hug me…When you say you love me…" his voice whispering against Canada's ear. "Are those actions part of the Canadian spirit, because that's how spirited America is!"

Canada didn't believe America knew what he was trying to prove anymore. His brother's words were numbed and useless; they didn't mean anything at all. Yet, by the same token, they made all the sense in the world.

A soft hiss of a whisper. "Yes…" and then America held Canada closer to him, sliding him from the furniture and placing him onto the floor

American hand in Canadian hand.

America tongue in Canadian mouth.

American arms around Canadian waist.

American sighs. Canadian groans.

The food growing cold, untouched.

The rest of the day dragged on normally in the sense that nothing of extraordinary importance occurred. The topic of spirit didn't return until nighttime darkened the sky and both were smuggled together under a heap of blankets.

"Remember what I said about Canadian spirit?" Canada mumbled to the form beside him.

"Yeah?" America shifted himself so he faced Canada.

"I was wrong. My actions don't display Canadian spirit, they show _my _spirit."

America raised an eyebrow at this statement. "Isn't that the same thing? You _are_ Canada, Mattie."

"I know, but not everything I do is the Canadian spirit. I mean, I am my own person." His arm wrapped around America's neck. "Not all Canadians are like me, Alfred, "he continued softly. "Just like not every American is a hamburger-obsessed loud-mouth."

America slipped the arm off his body. "Hey!" he pouted, "That's not a nice thing to say…"

The arm returned to his neck, despite America's removal. "I'm just trying to make a point, Al," he whispered, "The Canadian spirit is influenced by me, but I am not the spirit entirely."

"Okay, Mattie. Whatever you say," America's voice slurred with sleep. He pecked Canada's lips and went on to kiss his lover's eyes close. "Go to sleep," he breathed.

After both had wished their good nights, America pondered Canada's proposition- that, in a nutshell, his spirit and the Canadian spirit were different.

_Yet they were the same._

Just like how flowers were different, yet the same.

Two hamburgers sitting on a table were different, yet the same.

People were different, yet the same.

_They_ were different, yet the same.

America pictured a line of people staring straight ahead. Everything they did reflected their own personality, but at the same time, it reflected their families, their ethnic groups, and every group they are a part of.

Different, yet the same.

Did their relationship follow the same principle? The two of them weren't the love itself, but they did reflect upon it daily.

America, with half-lidded eyes, stroked Canada's waves of gold.

Funny how such things could be expressed in simplistic, yet complicated ways.

* * *

**This chapter is one of the many chapters amongst my multiple fanfictions that kind of just created itself without any concrete planning done beforehand to control it. It's more philosophical then past chapters, but certainly not lacking any romantic elements.**

**Next keyword: Maple (Suggested by MeowChan16)**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**


	4. Maple

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 4: Maple**

**Rating: T (for sexual content.)**

* * *

"Well, isn't this great…" Canada mumbled sarcastically to himself, gazing with disgust at the sticky mess that lay before him. A thin film of maple syrup coated the entirety of his face and parts of his neck. Stands of golden hair possessed drops of the sap and his black-rimmed glasses hung off-balanced after being smashed into the upper bridge of his nose.

Canada propped himself up with shaking hands. Refraining the urge to clean his face with a sleeve, he struggled to his feet, replaying the horrific scene in his head.

*~*~*

_Canada busily slipped two pancakes on top of each other as his other hand collected a maple syrup bottle from off the counter. Happily, he uncapped the bottle and a steady flow of brown liquid material spilled over the pancakes._

_Ever since Canada had developed a skill in culinary arts, he had been making breakfast for any company he happened to be hosting. It was an unspoken ritual, one that didn't seem to hold any significance, but perpetuated although Canada could never pinpoint exactly why he continued the tradition._

_America's visits were no exception. In fact, many prominent memories, both painful and enjoyable, had occurred at the kitchen table with two plates of pancakes served._

_Canada's mind drifted lazily from memory to memory until he began to notice a strange dearth in the weight of the bottle._

_Snapping his attention back to the food, Canada noticed, to his chagrin, that in his dazed condition, he had emptied half the maple syrup onto the pancakes. Grimacing at the overload of syrup, Canada scooped up the plate and maneuvered to the garbage._

_In that instant, Canada's foot skidded on a stray puddle of syrup and sent the plate airborne for a brief moment._

_After a blur of motion, Canada's next definite memory was of him sprawled on the tiled floor, a pancake-syrup mix smashed onto his face._

*~*~*

Canada groped around for a dishtowel of some sort to wipe his glasses off with, frowning at his klutziness.

And to think it was Valentine's Day! Canada had wanted to make the day especially wonderful, but fat chance of that occurring.

"Mattie?" America's voice came up behind Canada as the latter searched endlessly for a cloth to clean his face with.

Canada let a few curses fly from his mouth. He held no wish to be seen with half a bottle of syrup splattered on his countenance even if only America's eyes would see him in this predicament. Slowly, he faced America, hoping he was looking in the correct direction.

"A-Alfred! I thought you'd still be sleeping!" he stuttered, hoping Alfred wouldn't mind that his eyes were almost glued shut, courtesy of the syrup.

Canada felt fingers grab his glasses and slide them down his nose. The maple syrup clung to both surfaces, making thin delicate strings before they broke.

America rested the spectacles on the counter. "So…what happened?" he asked, eyeing the damage with sparkling eyes. The American admired how adorable Canada appeared in this mess. Every part of his face glazed in brown, syrup lazily dripping from his chin onto the floor, his eyelids cemented together… America couldn't have asked for a more opportune moment for this to have transpired as. _"How sweet!" _he thought pleasantly.

Suddenly, an idea sparked in his head. It was a nasty little idea, and quite…daring, but America doubted such a convenient accident would be recreated again.

Canada didn't catch the hungry glint in America's eyes or the way his twin ravenously licked his lips. "Well…I was making pan-"

"Yeah, that's great, Mattie." Canada raised a syrupy eyebrow at America's sudden loss in interest.

America felt excitement balloon in his chest, but successfully made his voice sound nonchalant. "Listen. Why don't we get you cleaned up and then you can tell me the story," America smirked to himself as he spoke, happy his brother could only gaze upon black at the moment.

Canada, under normal circumstances, would have already seen America's mischievous smirks and restlessness; the combination of blindness and the messy sugar on him was enough to allow America to take Canada's hand and half-drag him to the nearest bathroom. Or so he thought….

America entered Canada's room and shut the door behind him, making positive to bolt it. America then approached the full bed and sat on its foot.

"Alfred… this isn't the bathroom…" Canada pointed out the obvious, his eyebrows furrowing stiffly under the sticky mask.

"I know," America said. Commencing with his brilliant plan, America scooped Canada into his arms, bridal style, and plopped him onto his lap.

"What the hell are you doing?" Canada inquired at once, squirming like a fish out of water in his brother's hold on him. In desperation, Canada tried to open his eyelids but couldn't separate them.

America chuckled at the Canadian. "Like I said, I'm going to clean you up." True to his word, America brought his face close to Canada's and rhythmically licked at the syrup on his brother's cheek.

Canada tried to suppress a cute giggle as America's tongue ran over his face. (It was ticklish!) "Wouldn't the sink be a better alternative?" Canada questioned, attempting to make himself unflustered by the action.

America paused his licking to consume the syrup that had collected on his tongue. "Yeah, but what fun would that be? Besides, I can't let all this syrup go to waste~" He then resumed washing Canada's face, moving steadily from his cheek to temple.

Canada had to admit, America reasons did fit the bill. In addition, the way America's tongue rasped along his skin felt unbelievably soothing as it did odd. Figuring making conversation would be pointless, Canada relaxed his muscles and concentrated on America.

"Now that I am washing you, you can tell me how this happened," America murmured, his mouth at Canada's forehead.

Canada finally was able to pry his eyes open and gaze at his brother. "Umm….Like I said, I was making pancakes when…when I…s-slipped and the plate landed on my…face," Canada's voice was faded and barely audible. He found it hard to vocalize his thoughts while America was licking him.

America's lips curved into a fond smile. "Just like always," he replied dreamily, tongue tracing Canada's eyebrows. "But how could you have gotten so much syrup on your face?" he continued between licks down Canada's nose. "I mean, a regular amount of syrup wouldn't be enough."

A bright red blush invaded Canada's cheeks.

"I kinda…well...overloaded on the syrup." Canada whispered, mega-embarrassed.

America chuckled softly, his tongue now outlining Canada's jaw bone. "I guess every cook has his kitchen disaster," America commented and for one brief moment, he lived entirely on the hushed groan Canada emitted as America's tongue tickled the skin behind his ear.

"There isn't any maple syrup back there," Canada protested between pants. At this point, the northernmost country's heartbeat had accelerated twice its normal speed and little beads of sweat condensed on his already-sticky hair line.

"So?" America asked, his eyes glancing at Canada's neck. A stray drop of syrup slowly trickled down the slope. Mischievously, America lowered his head and intercepted the drop with his tongue.

Canada's breath almost ceased completely as America dragged the moist appendage up the trail recently blazed by the syrup until his lips rested on the pinnacle of Canada's chin.

"I…" Canada's meek voice continued with his explanation. "I was going to make them…the pancakes, I mean… especially for Valentine's Day."

"What do you mean? How are pancakes romantic?"

"They were heart-shaped."

America's eyes met Canada's as he lined his lips up with the others'. "Well, that was very thoughtful, Mattie." He replied, before joining the two pairs of lips together. Slyly, America licked the syrup off his brother's mouth.

Gasping sharply, Canada's lips parted in sheer surprise. America wasted no time in slithering his tongue into the latter country's mouth.

Canada, feeling strangely composed, closed his eyes and allowed America's tongue to freely roam his mouth. Canada even extended his own tongue to meet America's. He ran the tip of the aforementioned appendage down the upper part of America's tongue, and deeply sighed at the unique blend of maple syrup and Alfred that danced on his taste buds.

After America separated himself from Canada's lips, the latter observed the condition of his face.

America had completed the job fairly well, with about 70% of the maple syrup licked cleanly off. Sections of Canada's visage still held areas of sugary material, but these patches were adulterated by America's saliva. In conclusion, Canada remained a sticky mess.

Seeing that the majority of the syrup had been cleared away, America now moved on to the much bigger (and by far better) part of the operation. Spots of Canada's pajama T-shirt, (mostly the edges of the collar) held brown stains from absorbing the syrup. After experimentally touching the spots (and correcting his hypothesis that the stains were, in fact, damp), America said. "Oh, Mattie! Your shirt is sticky and messy. Would you mind if I take it off?"

Canada's eyes augmented in utter disbelief at America's words. "Excuse me?" he asked clumsily.

He didn't receive a vocal answer. Instead, America's left hand shot underneath his brother's shirt, leaving the Canadian stock board stiff. _"Oh God…."_ he thought as more and more and more of his stomach was unveiled to the open air. _"This is actually happening!"_

A few lengthy seconds after, Canada helplessly watched as his shirt fluttered, abandoned, onto the carpet.

America, now with a shirtless Canada all to himself, carefully decided what to do next. His thoughts floated from action to action until he decided upon one. His finger extended, reaching out to the pearly skin…

"_Wait,_" he froze fingertips centimeters away from Canada's abdomen.

Canada, who had been mentally preparing for this, frowned slightly at the sudden change in America's hungry gaze. When Canada inquired upon this, America only gave a quick I'll-be-right-back and scurried out of the room.

Canada's suspicions rose and he began to slip off the bed to see what type of scheme his brother had devised this time. Canada only had one foot on the floor when his twin made a swift return, carrying the half-filled maple syrup bottle with him.

Canada's blue gaze darted from America to the bottle to his half nakedness. _"Damn,"_ he cussed to himself as he uncovered his brother's "ingenious" idea.

"No," he began firing his dislike for the maple syrup. "No way are you using maple syrup in that way. It's messy and…no. I mean this," Here he gestured to the article of clothing on the ground. "-is enough, but that…I refuse," Canada pouted, folding his arms over his chest.

America smirked at his brother's brash refusal. "Aww, come on Mattie! It'll be fun," America encouraged, his voice unusually alluring and husky, as he squeezed thick drop of syrup onto the tips of each finger. He momentarily pressed the tips of each finger together, making sure the surfaces were thoroughly coated in syrup before kneeling over Canada. "Besides, didn't you want to do something special for Valentine's Day?"

In a sign of an easy surrender, Canada flopped flat onto the sheets, chest turned toward the ceiling. America took the unspoken invitation gladly.

Canada instinctively groaned as ten sticky, syrupy-coated fingers crept surreptitiously up Canada's stomach, leaving trails of the liquid over the navigated skin.

As this occurred, America brought Canada into another kiss, both their tongues flicking against each other like some strange mini-battle, only no one quite knew what it was over or who had even won.

America parted from Canada for a split second before the former became occupied with the task of licking the lines of syrup off Canada's once-clean chest.

By this time, the temperature in the room had seemingly risen to scalding numbers and both their breaths came hot and short. Despite his numbed, subdued state of mind, Canada decided to pull his own stunts. Once America got close enough, Canada ran his fingers through his brother's smooth hair. He didn't stop at the back of his head, but continued down the back of America's neck, sliding his fingers under America's T-shirt. He then proceeded to grope around the tiny section, not expecting America to moan in pleasure at Canada's intimate motion.

After Canada had been wiped clean again, the brother laying down grabbed America's fingers in his and sucked at the leftover syrup. America watched silently, observing with much pleasure at the way Canada's face entirely focused on the consumption of the syrup.

As soon as every finger had been purged of syrup, America slipped his hands from Canada's and dipped them under the waistband of his pants.

Canada's heart spluttered spastically as those same fingers massaged the tender skin of his outer thighs. "You know…There's another sugary substance I like even more than maple syrup," America whispered, his voice low enough in his throat to be a feline-like purr, "but it doesn't come in a bottle,"

Canada tilted his head in bewilderment. "You aren't going to get a jar of honey or something, are you?" he asked, obviously unaware of what America was alluding to.

"You'll see," he breathed calmly as Canada's drawstring pants departed from his waist and descended down his legs.

Canada smirked, hand reaching out to his lover, bringing him in for another lengthy, glorious kiss.

Valentine's Day never had been any sweeter!

* * *

**I am not much of the Valentine's Day celebrator, but I felt obligated to do something for today. This is a first for me in many ways. It's the longest chapter for this fic (6 pages on Word).**

**The second reason is that it's my first lemon. I was so nervous while I wrote it, feeling very self-conscious about the writing and if it would actually be good. In my opinion, a lemon piece has to be either amazingly hot or just complete garbage. Being that there is no gray area, I really had to make sure everything was perfect. Of course, in the grand scheme of things, this lemon isn't as "sour" as it can get, but I may get a tad bit more….erm…involved if another word pops up!**

**Another thing that is special about this chapter: I had started writing it a while before I even though about creating this fic. I got the original inspriation from a review on another one of my fics Hetalia Questions and Answers, asking if I could have America lick syrup off of Canada's face. AS soon as I read it, I knew I had to expand!!!! This chapter would've been alone, but I figured a series of oneshots would be more satisfying. Thus, The Matfred Chronicles was born.**

**Thanks again for reading and suggesting words!!!!!!**

**Next keyword: Milk (suggested by Yume Dust)**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**


	5. Milk

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 5: Milk**

**Rating: T (for sexual implications)**

* * *

"That's _milk?_" America eyed the plastic bag held against Canada's chest with suspicion.

"Yes, it's milk." Canada rolled his eyes at America's stupidity. "That's why it was in the _dairy section_." He stressed "dairy section" when he said it, as if he were attempting to get a newborn baby to comprehend the concept of a milk bag.

America still squinted at the bag with scrutiny, as if he expected the sack to burst into a white bomb in Canada's arms. "So…how do you pour the milk? I don't see a spout anywhere…" America asked absently, observing the milk like cutting-edge technology.

"…Do I really need to answer that?" Canada inquired, setting the milk on the conveyor belt accompanied by several other groceries America wished to purchase.

After the items were paid for, America collected the plastic bag, hung it from the crook of his elbow and waited for Canada at the automatic doors. As the couple exited the supermarket and crossed the parking lot to Canada's red convertible, America whipped out a pint-sized carton of milk, opened the spout and popped a straw into its white depths.

"I would've thought you'd get soda." Canada remarked as America slurped away.

America's shoulders shifted in a sign of indifference. "I still don't understand why you bother with milk bags…" he remarked between slurps.

Canada applied more pressure to the arms holding the bag in place. "They're just like plastic jugs!"

"The only practical use I would think those have…" America dismissed Canada's rebuttal argument, "…would be to toss it from a 10-story building onto some guy you hate as a practical joke."

Canada gritted his teeth, crushing the bag even harder until-

KAPLOOSH!!!!!

The bag emptied its fluid onto the ground, unable to retain its shape under the force of Canada's arms. The aforementioned man gasped in horror as the pearly liquid poured onto the ground, pooling on the blacktop as tendrils of milk slithered in between the cracks in the asphalt. Add that to the major helping of dairy product soaking into his thin shirt and Canada's mood had gone sour.

America snorted into his own carton of milk. The action was adorable and America nodded in approval of how the damp cloth of Canada's attire adhered to his form in a way that stirred an arousal in him.

Canada's eyes bore into his chortling brother. "You did that on purpose!!" he yelled, bottom lip jutting forward and nose crinkling in a grimace.

America didn't respond. He shook the milk carton, deciding the amount of liquid lay on its bottom. When the only sound heard was the plastic straw rattling against the cardboard, he aimed a pro-basketball shot at a garbage can a few feet away. The trash made it in with a muffled _thunk_.

Canada, ignoring his brother 's arrogant show-off of his athletic abilities, discarded the bedraggled bag into the same can the old-fashioned way, returning with a none-too-pleased look on his visage.

"You're going to have to pay me back," he snarled through gritted teeth.

A mischievous glint shimmered in America's eyes. Casually, he approached Canada until the northern brother was cornered with the rear of the car at his back. America clamped Canada's wrist in his grip and smashed his back harder onto the trunk. He littered Canada's neck with kisses before he spoke: "I'll pay you back, Canada, but in my own currency." His wiry smile contradicted the supposed innocent softness to his eyes.

Canada gulped, suddenly acutely aware of the other shoppers in the parking lot. "I-I don't-"

"Don't you want to be repaid?" Fingers teased the rim of Canada's jeans.

The loud crash of several groceries being dropped gave the intimation that one unfortunate passerby had witnessed the couple at the wrong time.

Canada shoved America away from him, his eyes flaring with a temporary animosity. "Not NOW!" he protested indignantly. Without another word, he dragged America to the passenger seat, shoved the American in, and walked around to the driver's side.

A few seconds later, Canada backed out of the parking space and drove to the main road. "You are erratic, you know that?" Canada commented, breaking an awkward silence.

America flicked his gaze from the window to the driver. "Thanks for the compliment," he responded, shrewdly. He would've said more, but if he had, there wouldn't have been any time to become completely mesmerized once again at Canada's sinuous body outlined by the damp fabric covering it.

* * *

**My editor, MeowChan16, once mentioned to me one time or another, that Canadians had milk bags instead of the cartons I'm used to. After doing a mild amout of research and getting inspiration from fan art, this became the final product.**

**Next keyword: Cupcakes (suggested by puppytwoface)**

**~AnimeOtakuFan1029**


	6. Cupcakes

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 6: Cupcakes**

**Rating: K **

* * *

Mountains upon mountains upon mountains upon mountains of frosting, colored in so many hues, it's a miracle that the various tints were distinct.

Canada picked up a pastry from the cookie sheet it rested on, taking in the details with the most scrutiny.

Canada had never truly trusted America's cooking. Not since he had transformed an honest attempt to make bacon into a near to disastrous house fire, complete with blaring sirens, jets of water shooting into windows, and two bodies shivering in the night air.

"_He probably bought these,"_ Canada thought to convince himself of the most explainable conclusions, but this theory did not account for the mixing bowl on the table, the remnants of flour that had been unintentionally scattered on the granite, the spatula tossed in the sink, coated in batter and America, gazing intently at his brother, still wearing an apron with the cliché "Kiss The Cook" plastered to the cloth.

"_Okay, maybe he did make them, but I still can't believe he made something edible for once,"_ Canada silently praised America's accomplishment of not creating charred ashes while cooking.

Aware of the eyes observing him, Canada took a knife from the drawer next to him and scraped half of the frothy sugar off of the cupcake and into the garbage, leaving a still rather large helping of frosting on top. Slowly, he peeled the wrapper from the cake itself, discarded it, and took a cautious bite. The vanilla flavor of the cake was sharp against his taste buds, brilliantly complimented by the rainbow icing. The creaminess of the substance was delectable beyond belief.

"Mmmmm…" Canada mumbled, expressing his enthusiasm before taking another bite. America watched in triumph as Canada gobbled the treat, savoring each bit. Canada swiped his tongue along his lips, bliss upon his face. "That was really good, Al," Canada commented as soon as every scrap of cupcake had been consumed.

America smiled lightly, impressed with the response. "It's a new recipe I made," he remarked, snatching his own sample from the sheet. He sunk his teeth into the soft bread. "I'm happy it was a success," America licked away the frosting mustache that had formed on his upper lip.

Canada felt an urge to show his thanks for the food but didn't know how to go about it- Verbally? With a gesture? Just be silent and smile?

His wandering eyes caught the black instructions on the apron he had dismissed shortly before. Without another thought, he stepped closer to the apron-clad person in front of him and followed the command exactly as printed.

Advice could come from the strangest of places.

* * *

**This chapter was significantly shorter than its predecessors. I didn't expect it to be finished in the short time it took me to write it, but this fanfiction always has surprises for me.**

**Next Keyword: Olympics (suggested by MeowChan16)**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**


	7. Olympics

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 7: Olympics**

**Rating: K **

* * *

"_Le Canada!"_

"Canada!"

A deafening roar filled every space of the stadium as the 2010 Canadian Olympic team emerged behind their flag bearer. Each athlete wore red ski jackets with Canada spelled out in white lettering on the back; they wore maroon mittens with white maple leaves embroidered on the palm and wool caps with Canada spelt out on the forehead near the brim.

Canada himself was on his feet, going ballistic. He waved his own Maple Leaf in the air, along with the other banners of red and white flapping in the stands. The Olympics are sometimes what every nation lives for- to compete and show off their spirit to other countries. This singular event had been all Canada could think about for the last few days. Almost every conversation he started contained some strange relation to the Games. He had been extremely busy, too, assisting the committee in preparing for the Olympics. Most of his efforts went into the preparation of the cultural performance of the Opening Ceremony. He wanted it- needed it to be flawless, to truly express himself, his people and the land they lived on.

Now, the final product of all those days instructing, searching, rehearsing, and planning would be displayed for the whole world (literally) to see. Canada leaned against America, squeezing the hand he held. "I hope you like it," he murmured, a grin as big as the landmass he represented spread across his face.

"Dude, considering how you spend the whole freaking week working on this, I'm sure it'll be the best performance ever!" America's praise brightened Canada's face even more.

The lights were dimmed and tons of paper snow fluttered down from the ceiling, drenching the audience in a fictitious snowstorm. A man walked across the main floor, dressed in Aboriginal-style clothing and carrying a staff. More people, dressed similarly, traipsed the floor. The man in the center tapped his staff on the ground sending a ring of blue across the white expanse. LCD screens of Aboriginal constellations, a giant polar bear ascending from a trap door, the entire audience littered with blue dots- a sea of artificial starlight. More segments followed the first. Trees rose out of the ground with dancers prancing in their wake. An ocean of maple leaves carpeted the floor as fiddlers and tap dancers preformed, fire streaking from shoes and bow hairs flying like hair yanked out of a ponytail. A lone Canadian soared across the plains, bathing the audience in goldenrod. Skiers and snowboarders "hurtled" down the Canadian Rockies. The skyscrapers of Vancouver were shown as a poet described the wonders of Canada in a figurative fashion.

All the while, Canada himself was in awe, looking as transfixed as a child at his first circus show, yet as proud as a parent watching his children performing at the same time. America didn't know which side was more dominant, but in either case, Canada was overjoyed.

The cultural segment ending with a fiery maple leaf illuminated by red flares, the ceremony moved on. Speeches were given, songs sung, flags raised and periods of rumbling that coursed through the stands as the spectators rapidly stomped their feet. A minute of silence was held for the loss of a Georgian athlete who had died during a training accident. Canada bowed his head, filled with the grief the others had in their hearts. When the music resumed, he later found it amazing how everyone could be excited and supportive one moment, yet silent and mourning the next.

Then, ah!~ The lighting of the torch. Four famous Canadian icons, standing with a flaming torch in hand. Three pillars entered from the floor, were turned and rested in a neat stack with the caldron in the center.

Wait…_only three pillars?_ Canada panicked, eyes glued in horror at the open trap door without a pillar. _Where's the fourth?_

They were having technical difficulties. _At a time like this…_ Canada's euphoric mood smoldered for the briefest of seconds, but the show must go on.

Three out of the four people bearing the flames approached their respective pillar and dipped the fire onto the whitish-blue pillars. A line of fire crawled up the sides and the middle basin burst into a bonfire.

What happened next remained a mystery for a minuscule amount of time. Canada couldn't readily explained exactly why, but it seemed his brain had a technical difficulty itself, having trouble flipping images right side up, identifying sounds, textures, thoughts, emotions…..

When his brain readjusted itself to normal, Canada was found victim to one of the biggest, most majestic kisses America had ever given him.

It was raw. It was hard. It was _spirited._

And Canada kissed back with equal amounts of rawness, of strength, of spirit.

Under ordinary circumstances, Canada would've been pushing America away from him, not here, not now. Even if he accepted the kiss, he would've felt burning eyes of the other nations on his neck, heard the hushed whispers, (_"Eww! They're GAY!" "How adorable! Let's get a picture." "I'm glad they're in love, but they don't have to prove it to everyone else in the world,") _would've been silently praying that a TV broadcast camera didn't pan in their direction…

This time, he completely disregarded his surroundings. Let them look, let them whisper, let the cameras catch everything on tape. He couldn't care less. Canada's only thought: he was making out with one of the most powerful nation of all time.

When they separated, America lightly had a grip on Canada's shoulder. Their eyes were fastened to each other, never straying.

"This concludes the Opening Ceremony of…"

The booming announcement sounded muffled, as if the sound waves traveled through water. An imaginary bubble encased the brothers.

"Good luck, Canada." A hug was evident. Canada wished the same to America.

America promised that he would kick his butt at hockey.

Canada laughed a little too loudly.

And he left the stadium, a balloon drifting into the atmosphere.

* * *

**In honor of the 2010 Olympic Games at Vancouver. Sorry this is a bit late, but better late than never, right? **

**Actually, this is fic was intended to be for the word Spirit for two reasons: 1) I, at the time, believed the first Spirit chapter was sucky (which actually turned out to be a sucess to my surprise) and 2) I wanted to write about the Opening Ceremony while it was still fresh in my mind. (which was almost a month ago.) I couldn't decide which to post, so I turned to MeowChan, who suggest I put the first option as Spirit and then post this one whenever ssomeone would post some other word that fit this chapter, which MeowChan did for me. So, it's been sitting in my computer files, collecting dust and now that the Games are over, I feel compelled to at least post this while there's still snow on the ground.**

**Congradulations to Canada for their amazing win and their cultivation of the most gold! Be proud!**

**Next keyword: Butterflies (suggested by xXxSilverMoonxXx)**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**

**P.S: Right as I'm finishing typing this Author's Note, I recieved a picture via text message of a photo of a wall that says in white letters "The World Needs More Canada". Not only is this true, but it goes right along with this chapter. Sometimes the little, random things in life make the bigger things a whole lot better.**


	8. Butterflies

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 8: Butterflies**

**Rating: K+ (for classic reference)**

Transparent wings fluttered by in a circuitous flight pattern, making pit stops at certain flowers, drinking their nectar through a curled tongue.

Canada smiled at the chromatic scales, the black edges flecked with white dots, a sea of orange in between the inky stripes. Their delicate bodies, the paper-thin wings, the string-like antenna, so perfectly shaped. Canada admired how nature had sculpted such a wondrous creature.

A flash of white cloth supported by a blur of blue sped through the towering grass blades and vegetation. Canada blinked at the sudden passerby and recognized the thing as a boy wearing a white Hanes t-shirt and faded jeans. He seemed to be enjoying the meadow and the sun on his back, but the innocent playing disappeared when he saw the butterfly.

The glitter in green eyes was replaced with a keen concentration, similar to a carnivorous animal stalking their helpless prey. The boy chased the insect, clapping his hands above his head in a vain attempt to capture the in between the palms. Canada flinched whenever those hands- those snapping jaws - came too close to the butterfly's abdomen.

Canada had the urge to curl his fingers into a fist and then bring it to that boy's face, but he had never been a violent person, nor someone who had the courage to speak up to evils. He only had the capabilities to be glued to the ground and observe the action he hated so dearly.

"HEY!" Two muscled arms hooked the boy underneath the roots of his arms and dragged him away from the monarch. America flipped the boy around so that he made eye contact. "What were you doing?" he growled, eyes boring holes into the little child.

The boy seemed to shrink several sizes in America's grasp. "I-I just wanted to…" he stuttered, his voice sounding like a constricted squeak.

"Look, kid." America knelt down on one knee. "I didn't mean to frighten you, but I didn't want that butterfly-" he nodded to the creature, now a minuscule dot amongst the fronds of flowers. "-to get hurt."

The boy frowned, bemused. "I wasn't going to hurt it. I just wanted to catch it," he tilted his head, as if looking at America from a different perspective would make it easier to understand the Nation's angle.

"I know you weren't trying to hurt it, but you could have. It's a sin to kill a butterfly."

"A sin?"

America nodded, his eyes, for a brief moment, acknowledging Canada's presence. "Yeah. Butterflies aren't like other bug; they don't sting, or bite or drink your blood. They help spread seeds and they are just really pretty. They shouldn't be killed if they don't cause any problems for us."

America had no clue whether the child would grasp the concept, but his face lit up with understanding. "Oh! Okay, mister. I understand! I'll leave the butterflies alone."

America grinned, ruffled the boy's tousle of brown hair and left the child to his own devices.

Canada was soon at America's side, an almost expression of awe on his face. "How did you-? Where were-? I mean, this is-?" his mouth hung open.

America smirked at his brother's pure amazement, happy to have surprised him. "Yeah, Mattie. I know you just that well."

A minute blush flashed onto Canada's cheeks. "It was to kill a _mockingbird_, Alfred, not a butterfly."

An index finger was laid on Canada's lips. "Shhhhhh! Don't say that!" America hissed. "It'll ruin the effect."

Canada merely smiled in a sort of silent laughter. When the child had gone out of earshot, America spoke above a whisper. "You know, you should really learn how to stand up for yourself, Mattie."

Canada's smile curved downward. "I know I should, but….I've never been someone who fights….I thought you of all people would be aware of that."

"That's why I mentioned it. You really need to say what you feel more often." America touched Canada's shoulder. "Sometimes, I think, it's not that people don't want to notice you, but that you don't make yourself noticeable."

"Are you saying that I have to be exactly like you to be noticeable? Because I'd rather be quiet than that alternative."

A chuckle vibrated through the air, the glassy wings fluttering with life.

"Well, then why don't we go somewhere where we can both be quiet?"

The two shuffled through the tall grass, the butterfly escorting them back to civilization.

**References made to ****To Kill a Mockingbird**** by Harper Lee.**

**I, personally, think it's cool that America would take use of one of the most famous pieces of American literature and manipulate it to his own use.**

**Oh, by the way, I have a challenge for you all! I've been pondering a mature lemon for quite some time and I have a word in my head that, if anyone suggests it, I will write. So, If you want a lemon, please type it which word you think it is (you are allowed three guesses). If you get it right, I will have to write the next word you suggest as the next chapter no matter what. Good luck to everyone.**

**Next Keyword: Games**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**


	9. Chair

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 9: Chair**

**Rating: K+ **

"We're here!" a certain jubilant Italian cried, bursting through the door. Canada practically had cardiac arrest with the sudden hubbub, but soon recollected himself from the shock and went to attend to his guest, America at his side.

_Just how many friends did Alfred decide to invite?_ he thought as countries flooded into the foyer over the course of fifteen minutes. There were the veterans to the scene, France and England, who had come to virtually every birthday party the brothers had ever had since birth. France gave each sibling a firm hug without a second thought. England was a bit hesitant to even shake hands, but eventually followed suit.

There were other familiar faces, too: China (who had dishes of dumplings for everyone to enjoy despite the fact that food had already been made), Prussia (whose congratulatory clap on the back nearly knocked the wind out of Canada), Russia (his cheerful voice didn't make his birthday wish any less colder), Greece (whose many cats soon became fascinated with Kumajirou), Romano (who failed to keep the cursing at a minimum), Japan (who brought some of the best video games with him alongside both the Wii and PlayStation consoles), Korea (to both China and Japan's displeasure), Ukraine(whose arrival could've been heard from outside the house what with her vast chest): even Cuba was present, a surprise to Canada due to his boyfriend's animosity toward the Caribbean nation.

For about an hour, the nations chatted amongst each other until America plucked Canada from the crowd, rounded up everyone, and directed them to the living room.

Now, America had been insistent upon preparing everything for the party (although he asked France to do most of the cooking while he prepared hamburgers), ordering Canada to relax on his day. Thus, Canada was just as dumbstruck as the rest of the mass to see a circle of chairs in the middle of the room and a boom box off to the side.

"We're playing musical chairs?" Canada exclaimed, having expected some ordinary setup for a video game session or movie marathon.

"Ooo! That sounds like fuuuunnnn~" Italy chirped, waving his hands up and down in utter joy.

"I guess a round or two wouldn't be all that bad." Japan remarked, a smirk on his features.

"It would, like, totally be a blast, right Liet?" Poland nudged Lithuania with an elbow.

It took a little while before the company organized themselves into a circle a few feet away from the chairs within. Italy volunteered to occupy the post at the boom box and soon music blasted from its speakers.

The group revolved around the seats, muscles tensed, eyes locked, breaths bated, prepared for anything sudden.

_Click._

At once, everyone jolted forward, scrambling to claim a seat, lest they be eliminated. As the last of the contestants slid into place, America plopped his rear end onto the remaining space just before Cuba did. In mockery, he blew an obnoxious raspberry at the other man, who scowled and shuffled back.

It took a few minutes to remove the extra chair and reconfigure the circle before the turn perpetuated, this time with Greece left without a seat (one of his cat had screeched and he had rushed off to attend to the feline).

More rounds ensued, with shoving, pushing, tripping, treading over toes, pinching, and even a dash of grouping in a desperate attempt to match tush with cushioned seat. At long last, one solitary chair was placed in the center, America and Canada glaring at each other, both minds set on being declared winner.

The music started. Both countries circled the folding chair. Their eyes remained locked, never flinching. A second before the sound ceased, America was in front closest to the seat with Canada positioned behind the back of the chair. An American victory seemed inevitable.

Once the notes from the stereo were cut off, Canada made the most agile move any country had seen him perform off the ice. Canada whipped around the chair, sat himself down and sent America crashing to the floor in one blurry advancement, leaving everyone dizzy with perplexity. The bemused atmosphere turned vivacious as the party cheered with enthusiasm for the Canadian, who comically bowed in acceptance of the praise.

He then extended a hand to aid America to his feet, but was instead yanked on top of the runner-up. Canada burned with self-consciousness and he was smothered in kisses, from head to nape of neck, very much aware of the occasional flash of Hungary's camera (especially when they shared a tongue-and-teeth lip-lock).

As both retrogressed to their feet, Canada vaguely speculated how many hits Hungary's blog would receive tomorrow and decided to ask her if it were possible to get a copy of a picture for himself. Somehow, he felt at this point, mental memories wouldn't be quite a satisfactory momentum for this particular first day of July.

**Hello, my dear readers! I understand it's been a painfully long time since last update, but I figured a birthday special would be the best time to return. I know I said that I'd do Games for this chapter, but inspiration hit me pretty hard (I will be writing up that one next, no worries!).**

**About the mature lemon: No one has really guess the word I originally had, but after reading over the first draft for the word I had in mind, I'm not so sure it's good enough. Keep on suggesting for it, though. I might just select another word for it that just so happens to be yours. Who knows?**

**In any case, I wish a very happy Canada Day to my friends on the other side of the border and a merry Independence day for my fellow Americans. Thanks, as always, for reading.**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**


	10. Perishable

**The Matfred Chronicles**

**Chapter 10: Perishable (suggested by Artificial Starlight)**

**Rating: T (for implied violence and heavily descriptive gore)**

* * *

The squashed grass underfoot was sprayed in a vibrant scarlet, a hue so distinctively red, someone might've mistaken it for paint- if only paint were watery and had enough surface tension to remain in drop form and sluggishly inch down the blade like dew.

No, it wasn't paint. Oh, how America wished it were paint- anything but a fluid that should never be exposed to the outside world. The nation had his knees on the soil, the moisture soaking into already adulterated pants. His nostrils crinkled at the still prevalent smell of gunpowder and his ears could faintly remember the cries of anguish as soldiers fell to their untimely deaths. The thunderous boom of the cannons still throbbed in his head; he felt certain the amount of commands and the overall sense of fear that every single approaching heartbeat might be his last had sapped his energy, leaving behind a ghostly numbness that practically coursed through his veins.

Now he looked up from the grass, irises meeting a heart wrenching arrangement of cadavers. These lumps of flesh, the souls that were once contained inside having transcended somewhere beyond human description, were being made into feasts for the decomposers, flies already wriggling in the wounds, nibbling away at the guts and tissue that had once upon a time constituted a living thing.

America had seen carnage before, no doubt about it- every nation that had ever sucked in oxygen had witnessed corpses strewn across a battlefield at some point or another, and would continue to let the image be reflected onto their retinas until they bled into the pages of history books. Even so, he often found himself quivering at the mere thought of the death toll as a result of every war he fought. Despite his abhorrence of slaughter, he was, in one way or another, glad that the victory had gone to the Union, a luminous piece of hope that perhaps Alfred would remain whole and not be ripped in two by his own citizens. But there was that minuscule bit of him, way in the shadows of his opinions, that asked him constantly if hundreds of thousands of lives taken by lead could possibly be the true price to pay for the assurance that he would remain the United States of America.

As a young child, America had tilted his head to look into the knowledgeable face of his father, believing him to be an invincible force to be reckoned with. This viewpoint turned itself inside out the moment America came to terms with England's flaws and witnessed his impressive, insuperable father break down at his feet, sobbing uncontrollably, a phantom of his former glory.

The Revolution taught America the reality- that human lives were perishable. Take away a person's clothes, armor, and tools and all that is left is a poorly constructed mammal. There seemed to be no apparent physical ability that could possibly aid in survival; no claws to shred, no patterned pelt to conceal itself in defense, no rigid shell to deflect attacks, no venom to poison prey with, not even a fur coat to keep it warm. Its only two unequaled features, its opposable thumbs and developed brain, had been the sole advantages that had kept such a breakable, vulnerable, perishable species alive. Those two features had, over the course of time, created substitutes for the necessary components of survival nature had neglected to provide. Their ability to create something out of nothing is a key to their existence, but also the source of their downfall. With this power, intrinsic to only them, they claim themselves separated from other beings, feeling omnipotent and able to withstand any cataclysm life should dare to throw at them. But in truth, all things- humans included- are susceptible to decadence and death.

A strident _caw-caw_ brought America out of his whirlwind of thoughts, his sight focusing on probably the goriest detail amongst the decay-ridden scene. An unusually brash raven had found its way to the battlefield while its brethren were off cowering from the chaos they still believed ensued. It was hopping briskly over the trampled meadow, a swollen tendon glistening in blood hanging from its red-tinged beak. It paused, black beady eyes fixated on America, seemingly curious before taking flight and vanishing into the foggy air.

If there had been any self-preservation left in Alfred at this point, now was the moment in which it abandoned him. First, he hurled, splattering the grass with more disgusting fluids then needed to be absorbed into the dirt. Then, he bawled, shoulders hitching, wails piercing the stony silence.

"Sir! What are you still doing here? You should be having someone tend to your wounds." America's glazed blue eyes stared into worn brown ones, belonging to one of the many nurses on site, working with the soldiers whom had seen the battle through to its end, but had been left behind with horrid gashes and cuts.

Alfred wanted to insist that, as a country, he didn't need immediate care when a multitude of others needed the care, but he allowed his weary body to be led away from the remnants of bloodshed.

**. . .**

"Are you okay, Al?"

America's eyelids shot open, cold sweat covering his body in the most uncomfortable of ways. He turned his head, finding himself immersed in Canada's worrisome, yet warm gaze. The mere sight of a human being not being consumed by maggots or moaning under the agonizing pain that filled its spirit was such an utter relief that he immediately roped Canada into his arms, burying his face into his golden hair.

Canada was rather taken aback by this abrupt action and had to remove his face from America t-shirt to breathe effectively. "I'm guessing you had a bad dream, huh?"

"Yeah….Pretty gory, too…." The nation convulsed in disgust, frowning in disdain at the musty memories that had replayed themselves in his sleeping brain.

Canada's eyebrows furrowed in concern as he pressed his lips gingerly against America's forehead. "What was it about?"

"Gettysburg."

Canada had enough knowledge in American history to relate gore with the name that had just departed from his lips. "Ouch. Not the best battle to be reliving." His twin pools of molten violet softened in a perfect mix of sympathy and care. "Will you be alright?"

America nodded briskly, a trembling, but sincere smile on his lips. "Yup. I'll be fine." As he admired his partner's pale skin and thick locks, he noticed how his brother's own fragile state was what he adored the most, coupled with the fact that he allowed only Alfred to witness in his weakest, most assailable forms.

Nature had been never been- and never will be- in the business of tattooing every living thing with an expiration date, and if it did, perhaps death would be more of a phobia than it is today. Regardless, Alfred had to keep his eyes on Matthew, on Arthur, on Francis, on Kiku, on his citizens, on himself, on anything he cared about, so that when his time to perish rolled around, he could do so in confidence that he had enjoyed his days as a fresh, living, fragile nation.

* * *

**Author's Note: This chapter was a product of my want to do something not quite so fluffy as the other nine chapters in this fic. At first, I wanted to make this more choppy and ambiguous than is it now, but I had a need to be descriptive. I don't think I've ever written anything quite as gory as this, and I understand some of you might be more into the fluffier stuff, (Not to worry! More of that coming up in latter chapters) but I felt obligated to give those of you out there into blood and guts a taste of that here.**

**Also: being that this is my first extremely graphic writing, I would appreciate feedback. If you feel I didn't do so hot of a job, don't be afraid to say so! I like to improve my skill when I can and you, my dear readers, are how I can perfect myself.**

**Historical Notes: For those of you slightly confused, the memory America was reliving took place during the American Civil War, in which states in the south of the country succeeded from the Union (AKA, the northern states) due to conflicts over economics, politics, and the like. This war is also the bloodiest in all of American history, with 640,000 soldiers lost (the highest death toll of American citizens involved in any war.) The Battle of Gettysburg was also the most vicious battle in the war.**

**See you all next update and keep those words coming!**

**~AnimeOtakuFreak1029**

**Next Keyword (hopefully, it'll be this keyword OTL): Jealousy (submitted by Hikaru2322)**


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